These Violent Delights Will Have Violent Ends
by wordswhatareinmybrain
Summary: "Not even in my darkest moments before did I even consider the possibility of doing this. But then I suppose that is the whole point. That was before. This is after." Post-Reichenbach. John isn't coping with Sherlock's death and becomes desperate.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: I expect people have done this before, but I just wanted to have a shot at it. Please let me know what you think about it. **

**At the advice of the lovely Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhitsasecret, this story is now with added warnings!**

**Warning: Possible triggers for self harm, suicide etc. **

I never thought it would end like this. Not so...hopelessly, not so colourless. But then my life has been devoid of colour for a long while now. The only colours are grey and red. Blood red. Not even in my darkest moments before did I even consider the possibility of doing this. But then I suppose that is the whole point. That was before.

This is after.

Life with him was so vibrant. My world, previously monotone, exploded into glorious technicolour. Everything was just so much more vivid, so much more alive. It was almost surreal, the colours were so bright, violently so. Life with him was certainly violent – running, fighting, loving every second. We'd constantly be _doing_. Whether it was examining another mutilated corpse for Lestrade, pissing off Mycroft or Anderson, or just me rushing after his billowing coat tails – there was always _something_. That is why the emptiness is so much worse now. Because I have known what it is like to have everything. And to be without that everything is more than I can bear.

I remember one time we had just got back from a case. It had ended in the usual climactic, dramatic fashion, with a chase through alleyways and side streets. We arrived back at the flat, out of breath, and, having staggered inside, leant against in the wall in the darkness, the only noise the sound of our breathing. We stayed like that for some time, content just to know that the other was there, not needing light. Eventually, our breathing returned to normal. I felt him shift next to me, turning to me, hearing the whisper of clothing as he moved. An intake of breath, as if about to speak - and then the light snapped on. Mrs Hudson bustled in, rabbiting on about nothing. The spell was broken.

Just after it all ended, I liked to remember that time. But after a while, it became agony. For after losing myself in the bliss of remembering the feel of him just _being alive, _I would have to return to reality.

And there would only be the sound of one person's breath.

Whenever I dream, it is always of him. Of his impossible perfection, his brilliance. He was like a source of light, his genius radiating from him. No – radiating isn't quite the right word; he was so much more forceful than that. He was more like a firework, or a flare. Burning so violently, so brightly – but then extinguished all too soon.

The dreams start off benign enough – just him and I, back in 221B, doing what we always did: him being impossibly clever, those eyes lighting up when he can show off to me some more, prove his genius still further. I smile indulgently at him. It is the only time I ever truly smile anymore.

But then the dream curdles. Suddenly he'll stop. He'll just...stop. The smile freezes and fades. The eyes widen, never leaving my face. And then he falls. Topples over backwards. For we are no longer safe in 221B. We are back on the rooftop. I dart forwards, trying to catch him, fingers frantically snatching at thin air – but I never reach him. He is already gone.

The sound is the worst. The awful rushing of air as he falls and then the dull thud he makes as he hits the ground, amplified a thousand times over. I try to scream, but am choked. Because my throat is filled with blood. Blood is everywhere. It streaks his face, marring his perfection, and pools across the pavement. And I am drowning in it. Drowning in his blood. It blocks my throat, my nose, my eyes. I try to rub it off, but my hands are dripping with it. Bright, red, sticky, hot, blood, blood, blood, blood.

It is then that I wake up, drenched in sweat, screaming. But nobody hears. I am alone, the only sound the dull thud still ringing in my ears, echoing through the empty flat.

Sometimes, it's me that pushes him. Then sleep has gone for good and the rest of the night is spent in the shower, sobbing, washing the blood from my hands, from my body. The blood that is always there. The blood that, no matter how hard I scrub, cannot be washed off.

I know it's my fault. I should have stopped him from jumping. I just didn't try hard enough. So the blood will never go. His blood, coating my skin.

Crimson is the only colour in my life – red, raw, blistered, swollen, painful.

So I give up.

I can't do this anymore.

My hand is steady as I pick up the razor. It is all so simple. It will be over in a few minutes. The emptiness will be gone. My hands will finally become clean – I will rinse his blood with mine.

This is the coward's way out, I know that. But I can't cope. My life is empty. The only things left are pain, guilt and blood. So much blood. It seems fitting to end it in blood and pain, too – a sort of purging. I will watch the life seep out of me, as it poured out of him, the end as violent as the rest of the story. His _had_ to end dramatically, violently – fitting with how he lived his life. Mine will end less dramatically. No-one watching. No-one knowing.

My eyes drift shut. I allow myself to remember him, one last time. I picture the ruffled hair, the half-smiling lips and the vibrant blue eyes – _so alive_.

The blade slits flesh.

Blood. Blood everywhere.

I smile rapturously, his name a sigh on my lips.

"Sher...lock."

I think I see his face looming over mine, eyes still as alive as ever, impossibly so. How can this image be so alive when he is so dead? But there is no time for doubt, no time for thinking. This hallucination is a happy one, for it means I can see him.

Ecstasy. He will be there. On the other side. I am going to him. So it does not feel at all strange when I raise one blood-soaked hand and touch his face. He feels so _real_. I am going to him.

Blood. Blood everywhere.

But the red is tinged with black now.

The darkness sets in: apart from two bright blue points. I think I hear my name, but I am too far gone to be sure. Besides, I do not care. I will be with him.

Blood.

And then the dark extinguishes everything, even the blue.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Oh my gosh, I can't believe you alerted and review and stuff! Thank you so much, I was never expecting it - I was literally dancing because all the e-mails came at once *keyboard smashes*.**

**I know that, in canon, it is supposed to be 3 years before Sherlock returns, but that just wasn't going to work with this story, as I still needed John to be raw from the pain of The Fall. This takes place six months or so after Reichenbach. As always, reviews are much appreciated. Ta.**

Sherlock Holmes was, by anyone's standards, a remarkable man. He had jumped off a building, _survived_ – and meant to. The past few months had been spent trying to bring down the organisation of the man who had come so close to destroying him – Jim Moriarty. Sherlock had hopped from country to country, leaving a trail of death in his wake. The job was by no means complete, and it was unlike Sherlock to leave anything half finished – but something was bothering him.

Something just didn't feel right. Sherlock had known, of course, that leaving John would be hard, but he hadn't expected to find it quite _this_ hard. He just wasn't coping. There was no-one to remind him to sleep or eat, and he had often just collapsed from sheer exhaustion or malnutrition. When he became ill, there was no-one to force him into bed and keep him there until he recovered. No-one to ensure that there was always food. No-one to stop him from going too far. And, despite all Sherlock's protestations that he "didn't have friends", there was no-one to share the chase with, no-one to show off to. Genius craves attention, and so, often, when Sherlock had done something particularly brilliant, he would look round triumphantly, waiting for the compliment that would undoubtedly come – but it never did. Then he would remember it all, and he would come so close to returning to London: but then he would remember why he was away from John, why he had to be. And he would continue with The Work, his eyes perhaps shining a little less brightly than they had done before.

But something had changed. Sherlock had got rid of the main threats. He had been sitting in a small café in Stockholm, long fingers clasped under his chin in the attitude of thought, when the idea had struck him. Why shouldn't he go and get John? After all, the main dangers had been eliminated, and John would enjoy the adrenalin and excitement of The Work. Sherlock tried to tell himself that it was purely for John's sake that he was returning – but there was a part of him, a niggling part, that whispered of emotions, of sentiment towards his old flatmate.

So he returned to London on the money Mycroft had lent him, and, checking it was safe first, made his way back to 221B.

He let himself in with his old key, trying to avoid Mrs Hudson – he wanted John to know, and only John. It would complicate things for her to know as well, and his getaway would not be so smooth or quiet. It was a glorious summer's day outside, and Sherlock had to wait in the hallway for a few minutes for his eyes to adjust, blinking in the gloom. Once he could see, he walked down the hall and ascended the stairs, pausing outside the door to the flat once he had reached it.

It was very quiet. Sherlock's footfalls sounded out of place in the deathly silence. All at once, he felt afraid, irrationally so. He tried to tell himself that John had just popped out, but his palms grew sweaty as a cold dread stole over him. He knew nothing about how John had dealt with his "death". _If _he had coped with it. Suddenly, Sherlock leapt into action, bursting in through the door.

He looked around wildly, pulse racing – but there was no-one there. His breathing slowed. This was why emotions made you weak, he thought grimly. He had deluded himself into believing that John was in danger. He sighed at how close he had come to losing control, at how weak he had become, and was about to sit down, when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye.

A splash of red.

Sherlock's heart rate increased again, thudding painfully in his chest. Slowly, he rounded the corner, following the trail of crimson.

Sherlock may have despised emotions and feelings, and prided himself on not having any, but when he saw John lying on the floor, life pouring from him, he could do nothing _but_ feel. He sucked in a sharp breath and fell to his knees beside the doctor, blood staining his trousers. John's blood. Sherlock's face contorted in pain and he bent over John, desperately trying to find some sign of life.

Wandering eyes found Sherlock's face.

A rattling intake of breath. A laboured sigh that might have been his name.

A blood-soaked hand rose.

He touched Sherlock's face, smearing blood across it. Sherlock looked down and saw, with a shock of repulsion, the ugly wounds across John's wrists, the skin open and raw, blood leaking out. Frantically, he grabbed John's wrists tightly with his bare hands, clamping down hard, trying to stop the flow – but the blood still seeped through. He clenched harder still, but the blood just kept coming.

So much blood.

John's eyes began to flicker and close.

"John, no, stay with me!"

His eyes drifted further until they were completely shut.

"John, no! Come on!" Sherlock pleaded with him, holding both his wrists, elevating them above his head.

His eyes remained shut.

Sherlock, frantic, pulled out his phone and shouted down it, growing frustrated with the slow responses. He dropped the phone as soon as he had told the operator the essentials, and re-applied pressure to John's wrists.

In reality, the ambulance can only have taken a couple of minutes to reach the flat, but it felt like centuries to Sherlock. He sat in a pool of the doctor's blood, it slowly congealing around him, staining his trousers, coating his hands. And all the time he pleaded with John, begged him, then commanded him, demanding that he should not die, that he wasn't allowed to. John's face was deathly pale, a grotesque contrast with the vivid red splashed across his face and arms. The only sign of life was a faint rise and fall of his chest, growing still fainter every second.

A beam of light fell on John's face, the dust motes twirling lazily. A peaceful image - but it only threw into sharper relief the deep shadows under his eyes and how his face had grown so much gaunter and more hollowed.

Sherlock still clutched John's wrists tightly, trying to do something, anything. The pleading turned into apologising, Sherlock saying how sorry he was for leaving, how he had had no idea that it would have affected him so badly. He repeated it over and over like a mantra, until the paramedics arrived and took John away in a hurricane of noise and panic and confusion.

They whirled around Sherlock, prying his hands from John's, snatching John up and stealing him away into the ambulance. They disappeared.

Sherlock was left alone in the flat, still sitting in the life force of John. The room began to spin when this thought occurred to him, and he disjointedly realised that he must be suffering from shock. He rose unsteadily to his feet and staggered into the bathroom, meaning to get a drink from the tap. He drank deeply, trying to calm himself – but then looked up into the mirror.

Sherlock Holmes was, by no means, faint hearted. But the sight he beheld nearly made him retch.

His chest and arms were coated with blood, and more still streaked his face where John had touched him. Sherlock had been covered in blood before and it hadn't troubled him, but the fact that it was _John's _blood...

Bile rose in his throat and he began to shake uncontrollably, his teeth chattering. He was shaken by the whole thing – what had been planned as a joyful reunion and become only pain and anguish.

Suddenly, filled with revulsion, Sherlock flung himself into the shower and stood under it, fully clothed, the faucet on full blast, still shaking. The water turned crimson.

It was when Sherlock realised that it was John washing away down the plughole that he heaved and vomited.

The months of malnutrition and emptiness combined with John's suicide attempt to reduce Sherlock Holmes to a weak and pitiable state.

And he still couldn't stop shaking.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Wow! I cannot believe how many of you have alerted or favourited my little story! *flails uncontrollably* I love you all. A lot.**

**Big licky love must go to TSylvestrisA who reviewed and told me where I had gone wrong with my first aid info. I have subsequently edited Chapter 2 based on the feedback. Ta. They also said that they found it hard to believe that Sherlock would take a shower if John had been rushed to hospital. Allow me to share with you my thoughts on this matter. I imagine that Sherlock is completely shocked and therefore acting a bit out of character. It hasn't quite sunk in yet what has happened, and I just had this image in my head of him sitting alone in the flat on the floor in a pool of blood, looking like a lost little boy. So you don't have to agree with me as to if that is how you think he would react, but that is how I imagined him reacting for the purpose of this tale. Apologies for the really long author's note, but I wanted to convey this information to you all. Because, as I already said, "You must allow me to tell you how ardently I do admire and love you." **

**As always, reviews are much appreciated.**

Sherlock stood in the hallway of the hospital, clothes sopping wet, still shaking. Everything had gone so terribly wrong. He was supposed to be sharing a joyful reunion with John right now, not watching him lie in a hospital bed, limp and unconscious, separated from him by a pane of glass. John looked...fragile. Gone was the stalwart army doctor, and in its stead was something infinitely more breakable. He was ghostly pale, his eyes closed and shadowed, sunk deep into his face. His hair was streaked through with grey, more so than when Sherlock had last seen him. Sherlock's chest ached at seeing his friend reduced to such a state. He stretched up a hand and touched the glass, reaching out to John's lifeless form.

The ache in his chest worsened.

"You had to go, Sherlock. You had to leave him."

A figure stepped out of the shadows, behind Sherlock, and crossed over to where he stood. The figure raised a hand, as if to touch Sherlock on the shoulder reassuringly, but stopped and withdrew it. Sherlock did not turn round, but continued staring at John.

"Nobody could have known he would react like this. That it would end like th-"

"I asked you to look after him."

The first man stopped in his tracks, words dying in his throat.

Sherlock still didn't turn round.

"I asked you to do one thing, Mycroft, and you didn't do it."

He stayed looking at John, motionless, his voice quiet.

Mycroft cleared his throat and stepped closer.

"You know as well as I that-"

Sherlock exploded with rage, interrupting Mycroft's excuses. "Did something come up at work? Is that it? Because that's always been the case before, hasn't it? Even when we were kids! You never had time for me – there was always _something_ more important. Our parents were gone and I was left alone. And now you've caused _this_. Because of your _neglect_."

He wheeled around and faced him, his eyes wild and livid with fury and pain. "All you had to do was keep an eye on him! You should have known this was going to happen; there would have been warning signs. But I suppose you were too _busy_ to notice." He spat out the words, hurling them at his brother, wanting to hurt him in whatever way he could. He felt _so much pain_. Too much. He didn't fully understand emotions, and now he was besieged by them. He was confused and hurting, and the only way he could find to cope was to hurt others.

Words were like the blade John had used, slicing flesh, pouring out blood. Sherlock stabbed Mycroft with his words, wanting him to hurt as much as he did. He continued to shout at him, accusing him, blaming him. He didn't care that other people were beginning to be attracted by the noise, didn't care that he was in a hospital and supposed to be quiet – all he cared about was John lying still in the next room, and making the ache in his chest go away. Reverting to his usual habit of shouting at Mycroft seemed like a good option to try.

So he kept shouting. Ugly things.

Mycroft's face crumpled slightly, the only external sign of the damage the words were doing. Eventually, he turned and walked away, leaving Sherlock to shout at his retreating figure. Sherlock continued to shout until he was out of sight – and then shouted some more. A nurse came out and tried to calm him, but he only screamed at her, frightening her back into her office.

He shrieked one last time before collapsing on the floor in a heap, curled into a foetal position, arms wrapped around his head, trying to protect himself from the world and all the pain it brought. Shouting hadn't helped. New emotions surged over him, dragging him down. Guilt consumed him. Mycroft had picked him up from Baker Street and taken him to the hospital the instant he had heard about John – and how had he repaid him? Sherlock felt he had gone too far this time – the things he had said were harsh, even by his standards. If John had been there, he would have said "Bit not good". But he wasn't there. Sherlock's throat constricted.

He lay on the floor for some time, his eyes tightly shut, enveloped in his coat. The only noise was his juddering breath and the incessant beeping of the heart monitor.

After a while, Sherlock sat up. Throwing a tantrum wasn't going to work this time – if only because the person that would usually have stopped him lay unconscious in the next room. The pain crashed over Sherlock again and the ache in his chest worsened, threatening to swamp him entirely. He closed his eyes again, reeling from this fresh surge of emotion – but then they snapped open.

It was unlike Sherlock to care that he was being self-centred – but John had changed so many things about the man. John _needed_ him. He was _alone_. Sherlock felt a fierce need to stay with John, to protect him from further harm. Using the wall as a support, he pushed against it, legs shaking, until he was standing. He made his way into the room John was in and sat down heavily in the chair next to the bed.

The heart monitor beeped steadily.

Sherlock watched John breathe. He was alive, that was all that mattered, he told himself. John looked so small, even smaller than usual, when surrounded by all the monitors and tubes and other medical equipment.

Sherlock suddenly grasped John's hand from where it rested on top of the covers, although it was covered in bandages. He held onto the hand tightly, firmly, as if it were the only thing stopping him from falling over the edge into a bottomless abyss.

The steady beat of John's pulse thrummed through Sherlock.

Still holding John's hand, he drifted into sleep, lulled by the consistent rhythm of his beating heart.

A while later, Mycroft returned, and was greeted by the sight of his brother slumped in a chair next to John's bed, his head lolling on his chest. His hand had slipped from John's in his sleep. His face was drawn with exhaustion and etched with worry and fear, his emotions showing through even more plainly in his unconscious state.

Mycroft withdrew, closing the door quietly behind him. He picked out his phone and arranged for people to watch the room, to ensure that the two were not in danger. He had not forgotten that Moriarty's organisation was still very much in existence, despite the main dangers having been eliminated. It would not do for the two to get shot now. Not after everything. It would be such a waste. And although he would never admit it, Mycroft felt horribly guilty about John. Sherlock's words had had more impact than Mycroft had let on. Ensuring their safety was his way of apologising, of paying penance. He would never apologise to their faces –a Holmes would never confess to such weakness - but he could at least do this one thing. He had failed miserably before, and he would make up for it in this way.

He watched the pair for a few more minutes before turning and walking smartly away down the corridor. He nodded curtly to a passing doctor and walked out of the hospital entrance. Mycroft slid into a large black car, speaking a few cursory words to his driver - and then melted away into the busy London rush hour.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: I love you all. All you readers and reviewers and alerters and favouriters. All of you. And I am so incredibly sorry that I have not updated for so long, but school keeps getting in the way of writing, and then when I actually had **_**time**_** to write I had the most horrendous case of writers' block ever. Which explains the shortness and somewhat rubbishness of this chapter. But anyway (CONCENTRATE, Sarah! (just read the Hound of the Baskervilles introduction – can you tell? (ughh I love him even more now and I didn't think that was possible))) enjoy the thing. And I will love you even more if you review.**

**And I will update as soon as I can. I swear it to you on fish fingers and custard.**

Sherlock woke up, his joints aching from having spent too long in an awkward position in an uncomfortable chair. He stretched – and looked sharply over at John.

No change.

Still unconscious. Still empty.

But still breathing.

Just.

Sherlock sighed deeply, a great whooshing exhale of breath and his head fell into his hands. He kneaded his forehead and then ran his heads through his hair, trying to wake himself up. He was still a little bleary and he could not afford to be so.

He felt so _guilty_. If it weren't for him, John would not be like this. He cursed himself for not having thought his plan through more thoroughly – he should have _known_ this would happen _(idiot, idiot, not thinking it through, not going through all the consequences)_. And on top of the guilt about John, there was this guilt about how he had treated Mycroft. He knew Mycroft had cared for John in his own way – it must be hard for him too, to have this happen. Sherlock wouldn't normally care about Mycroft or his feelings: but he felt that he had overstepped the line somewhat. It had just been so much easier to blame Mycroft than to do anything else.

But how was he _supposed _to do anything else? His best friend – his only friend – was hospitalised and it was all his fault. Sherlock needed John to live. When he had been doing The Work, the only thing keeping him going had been the thought that John was alive and safe. Except he wasn't. He hadn't been.

Sherlock's head stayed in his hands.

But then - a rustle of sheets.

A sigh.

The mattress creaking.

Sherlock's eyes flew open and his head snapped up.

"John?"

John's eyelids fluttered.

"John?"

John's head rolled over and his brow furrowed. He sighed weakly.

"John, wake up!"

Sherlock had leant forwards eagerly at the first sign of movement, and now his head was only inches away from John's. John's eyes drifted open and found Sherlock's face. His eyes widened.

"No..."

"What the _hell_ were you thinking?!" All Sherlock's fury at the world, at himself suddenly exploded. He tried to remember that John most definitely was _not_ the cause of it (although he supposed it partially was John's fault for having tried this, but it was Sherlock's fault that it was his fault...) and that he was sending the anger in the wrong direction, but he just felt so _confused_.

John's face had lost what little colour it had had before.

"You're dead..."

Sherlock's anger melted away as suddenly as it had come. "No. I'm not. I... I am sorry, John."

John shook his head.

Gently, Sherlock reached out and touched John. "I feel real enough, don't I?"

John closed his eyes, his head sinking back into his pillow. "You aren't real. You _can't _be real. You just can't be."

Sherlock gripped a little more firmly. "I am real, John."

John shook his head.

"You always were painfully ignorant to the obvious," Sherlock snapped, his anger bubbling up again.

John's eyes flew open. "None of my hallucinations have been that much of a prick before..."

Sherlock sighed and, again, tried to remember that he wasn't supposed to be angry at John. "I faked my death, John. It had to be convincing. You had to believe I was dead. You would have been killed otherwise. I couldn't just have you _die_. Not because of me." His voice became harsher. "But it turned out that I killed you anyway." He clutched at the front of John's hospital gown at the end of this sentence, as it he needed to reassure himself that John was still there, that he wasn't dead.

John looked down at the hand clinging to him and then back up into Sherlock's face. When he met his gaze, something seemed to fall into place. His eyes widened still further. He muttered "Oh, God," and then his eyes rolled back into his head and he was unconscious.

Sherlock froze, unsure. Should he get a nurse? Then he reasoned that he knew much more than any of the hospital staff, and decided to act on his judgement alone. Waiting for John to come round of his own accord was the best course of action to present itself. He was about to settle back into his chair, more relaxed now that he knew John was going to be okay, when suddenly he leapt out of it. Water. John would want water when he woke up. He swept out of the room and headed down the hall to find some for him. John would be fine on his own for a few minutes.

After all, he thought, they were in a hospital.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: *sidles on sheepishly* Erm... Hi. I'm really really really really sorry this is so late. I haven't updated for months. I won't blame you if you thought I had fallen off the planet or gone mad from lack of Sherlock or just plain hate me for abandoning this story for so long. I don't really have an excuse other than life got in the way – I had my GCSEs and I've just started college (with some hiccups along the way, I won't go into details). But basically, I am going to The Game Is On *squees* this weekend and I suddenly thought – what would Mark Gatiss say if he knew you had abandoned your story? He would not like this. He would not like you. So, spurred on my guilt and shame and a need for a hypothetical Mark Gatiss's approval, I present to you this chapter.**

**Sorry. Again.**

When I wake, I am alone. Nothing much changed there. What have changed are my surroundings. Which is weird. I don't remember moving... What _do_ I remember?

Can I remember?

I don't think I know how.

Maybe if I look around a bit. Might jog my memory.

Nope.

Well, I'm in a hospital that much is certain.

Oh _shit_.

I remember. Oh, god, I remember it all. Everything. I'd lain down to die but I couldn't even do that. Not dying seems to be a talent of mine.

And a bloody annoying one at that.

I'm just so tired...

My wrists hurt.

I examine them closely – not that I can see much, they're all wrapped up in bandages. I could peel the dressings off: but what would be the point? Someone would only put them back on. It's just causing more trouble, prolonging the agony a little longer.

I was so sure that it would end this time. I could have sworn...

Sherlock!

Suddenly I'm sitting up, ripping tubes and wires from my body, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. I don't know when I started moving, only that I am now and there would be little point in trying to stop it.

I'm walking through corridors now – if you can call it walking. Staggering, lurching, like I'm drunk. I wish I were drunk. I can see why she does it now. This will just be another reason for her to drink, if she even notices I'm gone.

My face is wet. When did I start crying? Maybe I never stopped.

I'll stick to the fire escape. Less noticeable. No one to hear then.

It's windy outside, especially at this height. It feels like it wouldn't take much just to knock me off. I'm still going up. I expect I'll just keep going until I can't go any further. Another habit. No reason to stop doing it now.

I was so sure that I'd seen him. Just before I slipped under. The second time must have been a dream: something to do with all those drugs they gave me.

I'd live off those drugs if I could.

What's the point?

I don't care.

I just want it to end.

I don't understand. Why couldn't I help? I was supposed to be his friend, his _best_ friend. I don't know how he could feel so lonely and broken that that was the only way out. He had me, didn't he?

But now I don't even have him.

I don't even know _why_ I feel like this.

Surely it shouldn't be this bad. Surely it should have stopped hurting this much. If anything, it's getting worse. I just want it to _stop_. To end something, properly, on my own terms. I couldn't control being shot, couldn't control being sent back home, couldn't stop him falling, falling, falling, falling, falling...

I want to stab myself through the eyes. Into my brain. Just get rid of everything.

Being a soldier is supposed to make you strong. It just made me more breakable.

I've stopped now. Can't go any further. I'm not at Bart's. Life doesn't work like that; it would be too symmetrical if I was. Life's not all nice rounded endings with a moral to finish – it's just a series of jagged edges, like broken glass. Easy to cut yourself. Easy to bleed.

How did he do this? It's sodding terrifying. Standing on the edge of my existence. Any second now the wind could blow me off. Just one strong gust and I'll be gone.

I hope that happens.

I don't think I can jump.

Coward.

I can't.

How else will it stop?

If he were with me, I could do it. No, don't be an idiot – if he were here, you wouldn't be in this bloody situation. So now you're stupid and a coward.

Well done, Watson. Well done.

The wind's picking up. I'm waiting again, that's what's happening.

I hate this.

Suddenly, the door crashes open behind me. I whirl round, eyes wide and hands outstretched, ready to fend off my attacker. Attacker – stupid choice of word. They'll be trying to talk me down, not attack me. You could argue that those are one and the same right now though. I don't want to be talked down. I refuse to be.

I've been staring at the person for some time now, without seeing them. I think they're speaking. I don't know, I can't hear over all this wind.

Definitely stronger now.

I blink and the figure comes into focus.

I stagger backwards, forgetting that I am, in fact, on the edge of the rooftop of a very tall building. So there is nothing to stagger onto.

It's not like the cartoons. I don't hang there, suspended, legs whirling and arms flailing. One second I am there, the next I am not.

I only have a few moments of weightlessness, air buffeting my body: but I have enough time to realise my mistake –

_I don't want to die._

My last thought, before I hit the tarmac, before my world explodes into a starburst of pain and white, before the black comes crashing down - _Please, God, let me live._


	6. Chapter 6

**A.N. – **Thank you to the fantabulous guest who reviewed, who I cannot reply to personally, but love all the same. **How many reviews now? This is crazy and you are all amazing people, whether you have read, alerted, favourited or reviewed and I should like to give you all cake. I'll fax it to you or something. Also, *grovels for forgiveness for not updating in three months* **

**Warning for a bit of swearing and much angst - but I would have hoped you would have guessed by now that this story is angsty. I honestly don't think there have been any lasting happy moments. Sorry about that.**

So this, _this_, is what it felt like. What it had felt like for John when he had fallen. How had he coped with it?

Badly.

Obviously.

Sherlock had been ready to leap after John, to plunge off the rooftop after him. There had been one terrible moment when Sherlock had been frozen, unable to move - but then, when he darted forwards, there were suddenly strong arms around him, holding him back, stopping him from doing what every fibre of his being screamed out for him to do. To be with John. To stay with him for always. They were each other's counterpart, two halves of a hole: they should never have been apart – that much was painfully clear to Sherlock.

But however much he screamed and kicked and fought and bit, the arms would not let go. As strong as he was, they were stronger.

In the cemetery, Sherlock looked down at the gravestone, no expression on his face. He could not show emotion, especially not in public. Mycroft had taught him that much.

He felt numb. He wasn't sure he _could_ show emotion. 'Here lies John Watson, dearly remembered'.

But he'll be forgotten soon.

Soon he'll be nothing more than dust. And then not even the ground would remember him.

And the headstone would crumble and fade, perhaps even be taken away and used for building.

Then no one would remember John Watson.

Not even dearly.

He couldn't sleep. Not that he had done much before, but now he feared to even close his eyes.

Because he would be there.

Waiting.

Sometimes the dream would be at the hospital, John's terrified and tear-soaked expression burned forever into his mind. Sherlock would be running up the stairs, having found John's bed empty, but there were too many stairs and not enough time. Yet still he runs, his legs burning, his chest heaving, everything ablaze, on and on and on, until he reaches the top and bursts through the door, the cold like ice.

And John is there.

_John_.

For a split second, the two are reunited.

But then John falls. Staggers backwards into nothing. But not before Sherlock can see his face.

And it is his face that remains, scorched into Sherlock's brain. His face that Sherlock sees when he jolts awake, his face wet and his sheets tangled and sweaty.

Other times, he is with John but it is not John. Not-John is cold and cruel and distant, and screams at Sherlock, blood pouring from him until Sherlock is coated in it. Again. The worst part of that dream is that everything John screams is true. Then, when Sherlock wakes, he trashes the flat, smashing plates, hurling experiments at walls, ripping, tearing, breaking. It is after that dream that Mrs Hudson won't talk to him. That she scurries into her flat whenever he approaches.

Moriarty had said he would burn the heart out of him.

And he has succeeded.

Sherlock never thought that he would ever be able to frighten his indomitable land lady.

John kept him human.

But now he has lost him.

Back at the graveside, Sherlock's fists clench briefly, the knuckles stark white against the already pale skin, as if he is in pain. It is because there is another dream.

And the third dream is by far the worst.

In this dream, John is there again. But this is not Not-John, nor broken John. It is just John. Sherlock has returned to him – but it is not how it actually happened.

This is why the third dream is the worst.

Sherlock has let himself in with his old key and is standing in the flat. It is all very quiet, Sherlock's footfalls sounding out of place in the deathly silence. All at once, he feels afraid, irrationally so. He tries to tell himself that John has just popped out, but his palms grow sweaty as a cold dread steals over him. He knows nothing about how John had dealt with his "death". _If _he had coped with it. Suddenly, Sherlock leaps into action, bursting in through the door.

John.

John was there.

He is there, in his armchair, reading a book, a cup of tea in one hand. He hasn't seen Sherlock yet. Sherlock stares at John, an almost pained expression on his face. Surely John must see him soon.

Or perhaps he won't.

Maybe he can't.

Maybe Sherlock is dead and John cannot see him. Sherlock knows all this is irrational but he cannot stop thinking it because _why hasn't John seen him_?

Then John looks up. Sees Sherlock. The tea slips from his grasp and he lurches upright, staggering backwards onto the carpet, clutching the armchair for support. The light plays with his hair.

For a moment, the two stare at each other in shocked silence: then Sherlock moves forwards. "John, I know this is hard to take in-"

"You're sodding right this is hard to take in!" The sudden loudness of John's voice makes them both start a little. "You're supposed to be _dead_! I saw you fall, Sherlock! You jumped off a building right in front of me! Don't tell me that didn't happen because it _did_ – I _saw_ it! I saw you fall!" John's voice is slurring a little – he sounds like he did at Baskerville, after Sherlock had gotten him out the cage.

"You saw what I wanted you to see," Sherlock says, taking another step. John's knuckles stand out almost painfully white as he grips the chair. "I had to die."

"You didn't have to make me _watch_!" John explodes.

There is a pause before Sherlock speaks again, the words hanging in the air between them. "Yes, I did. You would never have believed that I was dead if you had not seen it with your own eyes. You're too loyal. You have too much faith in my abilities. It had to be convincing."

John shakes his head a little. "I still don't understand. You _died_, and you're not sodding telling me why or even fucking apologising! Why do you always have to be so bloody secretive, so-"

"You would have been killed." Sherlock's voice cuts across John's rant. John's mouth stays open for a few seconds, gaping wordlessly, and then snaps shut. He stares at Sherlock.

"There were three gunmen," Sherlock continues, his voice quiet. "One for you, one for Lestrade, and one for Mrs Hudson. If Moriarty's men had not seen me jump then you would have all been killed."

John looks at him, his grip loosening a little on the chair.

"I couldn't be responsible for your death, John." He pauses, and then adds, with a grim smile, "I would rather die."

There is silence for a long moment, the two looking at each other. And then John is striding towards Sherlock, closing the distance between them, and Sherlock's head suddenly snaps back, pain exploding in his jaw. Taken off guard, he reels backwards, raising a hand to his face and looking in shock at John.

"That," John says, glaring at him, "was for not telling me. And this," he steps forwards again, causing Sherlock to flinch a little, "is for doing what you did."

Suddenly, his arms are around Sherlock, and Sherlock doesn't know when he returned the hug, only that the two are now clutching at each other, locked in an embrace, John's head buried in Sherlock's chest, Sherlock's head in the crook of John's neck.

"You git. I missed you," John mutters.

Sherlock is quiet for a moment, just breathing in _John_, the smell of him, his essence. Then he replies, his voice lower than usual. "I... I found your absence to be displeasing as well. I would not have returned, had I not."

Sherlock's coat is beginning to feel damp. John was apparently crying but trying to keep it under control. There comes a shaky laugh.

"Coming from you, that's like a declaration of love."

Sherlock smiles into John's neck, but he is a little uncomfortable. These words make him feel something, and he doesn't know what. Or why. The smile fades and suddenly both their breathing is loud in the silent flat. Something has shifted between them.

Slowly, as if he is compelled to do so, Sherlock moves his head slightly so his lips brush against John's neck. John stiffens, his breathing jagged, and goes to pull away, but Sherlock's arms tighten around him.

"Don't," he murmurs.

They are frozen for one long moment: and then John surrenders, slumping back into Sherlock, face once more pressed against his chest.

Sherlock brushes his nose against John's neck, slower now, not wanting to frighten him off again. John's breath is hot against his ear, unsteady and shallow, and for some reason this causes something to coil down low in the pit of his stomach. He drags his nose along the slightly rough skin of John's neck, wanting to see if he smells the same everywhere; his lips accidentally brush skin again.

John's breath catches in his throat. His arms are still tight around Sherlock, clenched somewhere in the folds of his coat – but this is still not tight enough. Sherlock wants _more_.

His lips whisper across John's neck, tracing a wobbly path up the curve of it to his ear, nibbling experimentally on the lobe, and then Sherlock begins planting kisses along John's jaw line. The kisses are clumsy and unsure, and he stops before he reaches John's mouth, pulling away a little to see his expression. John's eyes are very bright, his face flushed.

The two stare at each other for a moment, both aware of their frantic heartbeats. The thing in Sherlock's stomach dances and coils lower.

Sherlock licks his lips, looking down at John. He is almost afraid to break the silence, worried that the spell will shatter, but he feels something must be said.

"John, I-"

But he is cut off before he can finish whatever it was he was going to say, because suddenly John's mouth is on his, crushing their lips together furiously. And then he is kissing him back, equally as forcefully, because however close they are it is still not enough, and Sherlock still wants more. The kiss is clumsy, teeth knocking and scraping together, but neither man cares because this is enough. This is more than either could have ever dreamed of: John, because he never thought Sherlock could ever feel like this; and Sherlock, because he never thought he _could_ ever feel like this.

John's hands have wound themselves into Sherlock's hair, tugging almost painfully on the curls, and the kiss deepens, John stretching up a little more to slip his tongue into Sherlock's mouth. When their tongues meet, Sherlock thinks he will burst into flame right then and there. He had never thought he could ever need something _this much_, more than cases, more than nicotine, more than drugs.

He drags John still closer, the two gasping into each other's mouths as the last remaining fraction of air between them is eliminated. And then John has broken away, but only so he can plant kisses along Sherlock's jaw, on his ear, and then whisper, his voice throatier than usual from lust.

"I've waited so...long," he gasps, his voice hoarse. "Sherlock, you... _God_. You..._dick_."

Sherlock grins but it soon turns into a puff as John nibbles his way back down and begins to suck on the pulse point in his neck._ Carotid artery_, he thinks abstractedly, but any capacity for thought is soon gone when John begins to suck a little harder. Sherlock moans loudly, too far gone to care about the noise, his hands in John's hair, and pulls him back up for another sloppy kiss.

But then the mood changes – as if it were not already needy, it suddenly becomes frantic. The two men tear at each other's clothes; Sherlock's coat and jacket ripped from him, half the buttons pulled off his shirt, and there is a tearing sound as John's jumper is tugged over his head, Sherlock growling against John's lips because _he is wearing far too many layers_. He tells John so and he laughs breathlessly into his mouth, the sound making Sherlock's already racing heart skip a beat, just from pure happiness. And then John's hand is reaching for his trousers and his fly and this is okay because Sherlock is also reaching for John's and there is nobody else in the world whom he would do this with and he never thought it was possible to be filled with such a need and yet be so completely happy, and the two of them are back together and this is so _right_¸ they should never have been apart. Sherlock looks into John's face and sees only love and desire and adoration and knows that he is home.

It is then that Sherlock wakes up.

Alone.

Sometimes the sheets, or his trousers, depending on if he got changed before sleeping or not, are stained. Ruined. The sticky mess coating them is too much for Sherlock to deal with, so he just burns the sheets, without looking.

Other times Sherlock wakes with a throbbing sensation in his crotch. Then he has to go with the bathroom and deal with the problem. That is worse, because then he cannot blame it on his dreams. This is just him. Being weak.

He hadn't woken up with an erection since his teenage years. Trust John to be the exception to everything.

After this dream, Sherlock cannot go back to his bedroom for days on end. He feels ashamed. Ashamed that he cannot control his body, his mind, his impulses. But there is mostly just the huge, mind-numbing sense of loss. This is what should have happened. What should have happened if only Sherlock had been a little quicker, had pushed himself a little bit harder to get the job done more rapidly. Everything is wrong. And there is nothing Sherlock can do to make it right.

They wouldn't let him see the body. They wouldn't tell him why either, but Sherlock knew. Too upsetting. Too disturbing. They should have known that he was already disturbed; because he had done this. He had made John break and destroy his own body so that nobody was allowed to see it.

He hadn't been allowed to go to the funeral either. Bit of a shock for a person who is supposedly dead to attend his best friend's funeral. He'd probably have given the vicar a heart attack.

So this gravestone is the last he shall ever see of Captain John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.

One of Mycroft's men is waiting for him a short distance away. Probably there to make sure he doesn't try and dig down into the soil with his bare hands to find John's coffin, to open it and crawl in and curl up next to him and that way be with him forever.

Because that is what he should be doing.

Sherlock nods once. He can't say anything. What good would it do? John can't hear him because he is dead and he is dead because of him.

It is dark by the time he feels the man's hand on his shoulder.

"Time to go, Mr. Holmes."

He takes one last look at the grave before turning away, his legs a little unsteady underneath him. He shrugs off furiously any attempt the man makes to assist him, and, slowly, staggers to the car. Mycroft has kept him under constant supervision ever since John fell – but if he thinks that will deter Sherlock then he knows his brother even less than he thinks he does.

He'll find a way. He'll be with John yet.

**A.N. – And I think that's it! It's over! It's finished!**

**Maybe. Depends if my brain decides to spew any more.**

**Much respect if you realised that one passage in it was taken from Chapter 2 – I wanted to show how close Sherlock was to having things go the way he wanted them to. Also I would like to point out that I actually do like John – one of my friends stumbled across this fic and, after reading it, asked me, in an outraged tone of voice, "Do you just hate John or something?!" I vehemently protest against this. John is awesome. But sometimes I just like killing him to see how Sherlock reacts.**

**Apologies if anyone was offended by the manly kissing that went on – the genre was Romance, so I hope people guessed it would be Johnlock, and it wasn't too explicit, so hopefully you're all okay with that. Sorry if you're not. I didn't want to put a warning at the start because spoilers.**

**Thank you so much for all of you for reading and for putting up with my insanely irregular and infrequent updating – you are all truly the most fabulous people. I've just begun writing a new fic, so that should be up before too long. Life permitting.**

**Take care, my lovelies.**


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